by Rex Stout
At Sixty-first Street he noticed a magnificent white marble building set back some fifty feet from the street, facing Central Park. It was flanked by four minarets, each one bearing at the top a marble group representing a winged angel destroying a warrior’s sword. Over the entrance, in heavy raised letters, was the inscription HALL OF PEACE.
“So this is where they do it,” thought Pamfret, as he gazed at the inscription. “I’d like to blow the d—d thing up.” Then he noticed that the main doors were open, and passing over the outer flagstones with an odd feeling of fear, he went inside.
The interior was very similar to that of a cathedral, with the exception that there were no stained glass windows. Immense columns of marble rose on every side, while the vaulted roof seemed to reach to the skies. At the farther end was an altar, on which was set the figure of the winged angel destroying the warrior’s sword. The group was of ebony. Below, on the pedestal, were inscribed the words of the Poet:
“And therefore, to our weaker view,
O’erlaid with black, staid Wisdom’s hue,”
Around the altar rail below the figures men and women were kneeling. Pamfret, as he gazed, felt a feeling of mingled disgust and awe sweep over him. “Of course,” he said to himself, “it is really very funny. But somehow it impresses one.” And he turned to leave.
A half-hour later found him seated in his room at the Hotel Pax, reading a book. He had found it lying on the table when he entered the room. It was covered in black leather and lettered in gold with the title, “Book of Peace.” “By all the Gods!” exclaimed Pamfret. “Here’s their bible!”
It was little more than a book of rules, with photographs and biographies of the founders of the great Congress and a short exposition of the philosophy of the new World Religion. Everything, it seemed, was under the domination of this all-powerful Congress.
Pamfret, mentally disturbed as he was, found a great deal of amusement in the rules of the Committee on Courtship, while he found that the Committee on Domesticity had made the family a farce and the home a tomb. The Committee on Sleep—but Pamfret could go no further. He was completely exhausted. His head fell forward till his chin rested on his breast. Awakening with a start, he undressed and went to bed.
He dreamed of Peace, Peace with the body of an angel and a horrible grinning skull for a head. Through rivers and valleys, over steep hills and deep bogs and marshes this frightful thing pursued him, until at last he saw before him in the middle of a desert, the beautiful Hall of Peace. With a final burst of strength he reached the portal, and entering the marble vault, approached the altar and knelt before it. The ebony angel on the pedestal put together the pieces of the broken sword of the warrior, and raised it to strike. Pamfret raised his arm to ward off the blow; and just as the sword was descending with the speed of lightning, he awoke.
Someone was knocking on the door of his room. Pamfret, still shaking with the fear of his dream, called out, “Who is it?”
“In the name of the International Peace Congress and the Committee on Sleep, I ask that this door be opened,” came a voice.
“What the devil have I done now?” thought Pamfret. “Disturbed the peace of my bedcovers, I suppose.”
“In the name of the International Peace—” began the voice again.
“Oh, shut up!” said Pamfret under his breath, and crossed to the door and opened it. “What do you want?” he demanded.
The intruder eyed Pamfret serenely. He was dressed in white from head to foot, with a silver shield bearing the symbol of the angel and warrior on his breast. On his cap in gold letters was the word “Peace.”
“What do you want?” Pamfret repeated.
“You were talking in your sleep,” answered the Man in White. “Violation of Rule 34. Come.”
“Come where?” asked Pamfret.
“You are pretending.” But noting the blank look on Pamfret’s face, he added, “To the Hospital for Talkers and Snorers.”
“My God!” exclaimed Pamfret, and burst out laughing. “You don’t mean to say that—”
“Ignorance is no excuse,” the Man in White interrupted.
“But I have to dress.”
“Well, I’ll wait outside. You have five minutes.”
Pamfret walked over to the chair by the window and sat down. He would have liked to have had time to think it all over, this grotesque, mad world that seemed to have lost its senses since he had left it sixty years before. As the scenes and events of the day passed through his mind he knew not whether to laugh or cry. Of course it was all very ludicrous, but—
“Time is up,” called the Man in White through the door.
Pamfret crossed over to the closet where his coat was hanging and took from the inside pocket a small vial filled with a green liquid. Then he lay down on the bed and drank the liquid to the last drop. “Satan knew what he was about, after all,” he murmured, and closed his eyes.
When the Man in White entered, the room was empty.
A Companion of Fortune
ARTHUR CHURCHILL-BROWN, ATTACHÉ at the British Legation in Rome, leaned back in his chair till it rested against the rim of his desk, and squinted disagreeably at an open letter which he held in his hand. This attitude of Arthur’s toward his desk was nothing unusual. According to his unformed but practical philosophy, desks were made exactly for that purpose. He found a mild but never failing interest in the almost constant stream of visitors who passed down the narrow hall at the rear; and he thoroughly abhorred the necessity of giving any attention whatever to the papers and documents which were occasionally laid behind him on his desk by the silent-footed attendant, whose back, as he noiselessly returned to the inner rooms of the secretary and the ambassador, seemed to Arthur to suggest an almost intolerable insolence. Someday, he felt sure, he would throw something at it.
On this particular morning the expression of bored annoyance which had come to be Arthur’s official countenance had deepened to one of positive displeasure. “What the deuce do they all come here for, anyway?” he growled. “Good Lord! And they all go the same route. It’s enough to kill a man.” He felt behind him on the desk for a packet of cigarettes, lit one and, puffing furiously, reread the offending letter. It ran as follows:
My Dear Son:
I have time for only a line, but I must get this off at once. Miss Carlisle, a very wealthy American lady, and her companion are leaving tonight for Rome. I met her last month at Strathmore, and she has been staying with me for a day or two in town. I have promised for you to open some doors for her in Rome, and she will probably call very shortly after you get this. Don’t haul her out to Udini’s or any of the other places across the river.
Hastily,
Your loving Mother.
P.S.—I’ll send you a check on the twentieth.
M. C. B.
Arthur sighed, wheeled his chair around and began to wade through the pile of papers that had accumulated during his absence the day before. “She knows very well,” he grumbled, “that I’m too busy to run all over the blooming town like a footman.” Which was very true. Since his promotion—he regarded the term as pure sarcasm—to the Home Desk, he had been forced to spend at least an hour of each day in real work. To a young diplomat who had spent a full year in learning the delicate and subtle methods by which one may remain comfortably balanced between the Black and the White, this was indeed irksome. It necessitated a complete readjustment. More than once the picturesque inventions of a stranded beachcomber, sent down from Naples by an overworked but still credulous consul, had violently disturbed the nice balance of Arthur’s social position in the Eternal City, where the most alluring and entrancing eyes have a disconcerting way of looking in two directions at once.
“Miss Carlisle,” continued Arthur, still speaking aloud, and emphasizing the title. “Of course, she’s an old maid. Probably forty, possibly fifty, and certainly plain. She’ll want to do the whole blooming round. If anybody had asked me but—”
He
was interrupted by the entrance of a servant, who approached his desk and stood waiting for him to speak.
“Well?” said Arthur, without looking up.
“A lady, sir.”
Arthur’s worst fears were confirmed. As he advanced to meet Miss Carlisle he swore, under his breath. Just in the height of the season, to waste a week on this! She could not be described better than in Arthur’s own words: probably forty, possibly fifty, and certainly plain. Lanky, angular, and yet somehow graceful, she advanced to meet the young diplomat with outstretched hand and a somewhat pleasing smile. Arthur extended his own hand, then stood still, staring with rude frankness over Miss Carlisle’s left shoulder.
“That,” said the very wealthy American lady, “is just what I expected. I’ve grown used to it in the past three weeks. Miss Moulton,” turning to the young woman who had been the object of Arthur’s surprised gaze, “this is Mr. Churchill-Brown. Miss Moulton is my companion,” she explained.
“Oh!” said the young man. Then, after a moment’s silence, “O—Oh!” he repeated.
At which foolish remark no one would be surprised who had ever had the good fortune to see Miss Moulton. She was the exact antithesis of Miss Carlisle; and added to the charm of her youth and beauty and loveliness was a certain indefinable air of disdain that chained the young man to the floor and left him speechless. While Miss Carlisle chattered amiably, something about having found him absent when they called the day before, and did he get her card, and wasn’t Rome a wonderful place, and weren’t the hotels the worst in the world, Arthur gazed openly at the companion, who finally found it necessary to turn away and begin an inspection of a portrait of the Duke of Wellington hanging nearby.
“But we don’t want to bother you,” Miss Carlisle finished breathlessly.
“Bother?” Arthur waved his hand in derision at the idea. “I have absolutely nothing to do.” He felt a slight twinge of conscience as he glanced at the untouched pile on his desk; then his eye rested on the back of Miss Moulton, who was still inspecting the portrait. “Absolutely nothing,” he repeated firmly. “I am only too delighted to be able to be of service to you. There is a luncheon today at the Guidi Palace—I’m sure you’ll find it interesting. Then, this afternoon—”
“Today is full, I’m afraid—for us.” Miss Moulton had turned to face them and was speaking in a coolly impersonal tone. “We are going to San Lorenzo, San Pietro and the Borghese. Really Mr. Churchill-Brown, there is no need to disturb you. But we are very grateful.”
Arthur glanced at Miss Carlisle. “But I thought—Mother told me—” then at the amusement depicted on Miss Moulton’s face he stopped short.
“I know,” said the elder lady. “But what can I do?” She glanced at her companion and then turned helplessly to Arthur. “She tells me to go somewhere—and I go, whether I want to or not. What can I do?”
“Nothing whatever,” the young man said gravely. “To tell the truth, I don’t think you should object. When you can be piloted by one who—” Miss Moulton was regarding him suspiciously—”whose tastes lead to the Borghese—” Arthur grinned—“you should be more than satisfied. But I shall see you again?” He glanced appealingly at Miss Moulton who had started to leave. She turned at the door and looked at him for a moment over her shoulder.
“We are to be in Rome only a week,” she said, hesitating. “Perhaps—we are staying at the Larossa.” With a nod and a smile she tripped out, followed by Miss Carlisle, and through a window Arthur saw them enter a public brougham and drive away.
Now, there was nothing unusual in that, was there? Is there any more common sight in Europe than a pair of trippers calling at a legation? And do not all old maids have a companion? Are not these companions—especially in stories—always pretty? And yet—
Thirty minutes later Arthur muttered an impatient oath, sprang up from his chair and began walking up and down the room. “I’m a jolly idiot,” he said firmly. “What do I care whether she snubbed me or not? Yet she told me her hotel—Well, what if she did? Who is she, anyway? A companion! I wonder—” he hesitated. “I may call on Miss Carlisle. She’s a very dear lady. Very. Besides, it would please Mother. Mother evidently liked her. Moulton, eh? May be a cousin. May be a niece. I wonder if she—” he stopped short and stood for some minutes regarding the corner of his desk thoughtfully, then rang a bell, and when a servant appeared, ordered a carriage. Five minutes later he might have been overheard directing the driver, “To the Borghese.”
If Lady Churchill-Brown, who was showing her daughter in as many places as possible during the short London season, had by some supernatural agency been enable to survey the movements of her son for the following two weeks, she would have been agreeably surprised and immensely pleased at the evident success of her plan to cure him of certain follies. Her treatment had consisted of an appointment to the diplomatic service. As though a young man who had been willing to misbehave in London would of necessity become an anchorite in Rome! Arthur had acted just as he might have been expected to act; in a very youthful and, maternally speaking, a thoroughly disgraceful manner.
Of this fact Lady Churchill-Brown was not entirely unaware; therefore would she have been highly gratified if she had observed her son’s actions for the two weeks following his meeting with Miss Carlisle—and her companion. He developed an incredible longing for moonlight views of the Colosseum; he visited churches and villas and galleries and ruins, gladly betraying his ignorance and expressing humble gratitude for the instruction and enlightenment kindly furnished by Miss Moulton; he attended Miss Carlisle with unexampled assiduity and devotion; he sat in corners at afternoon teas where they talked in hushed tones of Gabriele d’Annunzio, or talked of him not at all; and for fourteen whole days, never once did he cross the bridge to Udini’s! This last was in itself a miracle.
Behold him then, on the morning following the expiration of the two weeks, seated in a quiet and tastefully furnished private parlor at the Hotel Larossa. In the centre of the room was a pile of trunks and bags; Arthur was sitting on one of the former. In a chair over by a window was Miss Carlisle, wearing a dark blue traveling suit. She was sitting bolt upright, with her hands resting on the arms of her chair, evidently much disturbed by the startling information just imparted to her by Arthur.
“It seems to me,” she said, hesitating, “that you had better speak to Miss Moulton.”
There was a slight pause, while the young man twirled his hat around in his hands nervously and gazed at the door. Then he looked up at Miss Carlisle with an air of determination. “It’s this way,” he said. “I may as well be frank with you. I suppose I’ll ask her anyway, but I want to talk with you about it first. The fact is, I can’t afford it; though as far as I’m concerned it doesn’t make the slightest difference. It’s only for her. What I want to know is, who is she, and how long have you known her, and all that sort of thing.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then why don’t you tell her so?”
Arthur was silent.
“Why don’t you tell her?” Miss Carlisle repeated grimly.
“I—I’m afraid to,” the young man stammered.
“Pooh!” the lady snorted contemptuously. “I can tell you one thing; you won’t get any satisfaction out of me. Of course you’re afraid! You’re afraid she’s poor. You’re afraid her great-grandfather was as disrespectable as your own. And more than everything else, you’re afraid of your mother!”
“I am not!” the young man declared hotly, his face very red.
“Yes you are!” Miss Carlisle almost shouted, rising and waving her arms excitedly. “Don’t contradict me! And I can hardly blame you; She’s worth a dozen of your kind. She’s a thousand times too good for you. If she’d only had sense enough not to fall in love with you!”
“What!” cried Arthur, turning pale.
Miss Carlisle sank back into her chair. “Now what have I done?” she said helplessly. “Anyway, it w
as a lie. I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“Oh!” said Arthur, doubtfully.
Then the door opened to admit Miss Moulton herself.
Arthur arose awkwardly, and there ensued the uncomfortable silence which always greets the entrance of one who has been the subject of conversation. The young lady looked from Arthur to Miss Carlisle and back again, as if to inquire the cause of their very evident embarrassment. Then the young man pulled two slips of blue paper from his pocket and advanced toward Miss Moulton with an attempt at naturalness that fell quite flat.
“Here are your tickets,” said he, smiling foolishly. Miss Carlisle arose, muttered something unintelligible, and disappeared in the direction of her bedroom.
“What’s the matter?” asked Miss Moulton coolly.
“Nothing,” said Arthur, visibly ill at ease. “Nothing whatever. The fact is, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well?”
“Well—er—I—” he hesitated stammering.
“Go on,” Miss Moulton said encouragingly.
Arthur gulped hard. “Haven’t you noticed anything funny about me lately?” he demanded desperately.
“No—o, I think not. Are you ill?”
“Well, you see—” Arthur looked at her appealingly, “by Jove, I believe I am. The fact is, I—hang it all—I love you!”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, I do,” he said doggedly, as though she had contradicted him. “Odd, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” this with a rising inflection.
“Well, perhaps not exactly odd.” He appeared to be considering the matter. “But very curious, you know—wonderful, and all that sort of thing. Er—moonlight rides, and all that sort of thing. I’ve thought of nothing else since I saw you. I’m a regular blooming idiot.”
“Are you trying to make run of me?”
